“That is certain. And as for Dorette Valdez--the coquette--it will certainly be a great happiness to her.” Isabel sighed, and the Senora felt a kind of satisfaction in the sigh. It was unendurable to be alone in her regrets and her longings. “Yes,” she continued, “every night Senora Trespalacios will give a tertulia, and the officers will have military balls--the brave young men; they will be so gay, so charming, so devoted, and in a few hours, perhaps, they will go into the other world by the road of the battlefield. Ah, how pitiful! How interesting! Cannot you imagine it?” Isabel sighed again, but the sigh was for the gay, the charming Luis Alveda. And when she thought of him, she forgot in a moment to envy Dorette Valdez, or the senoritas of the noble house of Trespalacios. And some sudden, swift touch of sympathy, strong as it was occult, made the Senora at the same moment remember her husband and her sons. A real sorrow and a real anxiety drove out all smaller annoyances. Then both her daughters wept together, until their community of grief had brought to each heart the solemn strength of a divine hope and reliance. “My children, I will go now and pray,” said the sorrowful wife and mother. “At the foot of the cross I will wait for the hour of deliverance;” and casting herself on her knees, with her crucifix in her hand, she appeared in a moment to have forgotten everything but her anguish and her sins, and the Lamb of God upon whom, with childlike faith, she was endeavoring to cast them. Her tears dropped upon the ivory image of the Crucified, and sympathetic tears sprung into Antonia’s and Isabel’s eyes, as they listened to her imploration. That night, when all was dark and still, Ortiz returned with the wagon. In the morning Antonia went to speak to him. He looked worn-out and sorrowful, and she feared to ask him for news. “There is food in the house, and I have made you chocolate,” she said, as she pitifully scanned the man’s exhausted condition. “The Senorita is kind as the angels. I will eat and drink at her order. I am, indeed, faint and hungry.” She brought him to the table, and when he refused to sit in her presence, she said frankly, “Captain Ortiz, you are our friend and not our servant. Rest and refresh yourself.” He bent upon one knee and kissed the hand she offered, and without further remonstrance obeyed her desire. Isabel came in shortly, and with the tact of true kindness she made no remark, but simply took the chair beside Ortiz, and said, in her usual voice and manner: “Good morning, Captain. We are glad to see you. Did you meet my brother Thomas again?” “Senorita, God be with you! I have not seen him. I was at Goliad.” “Then you would see our brother Juan?” “Si. The Senor Juan is in good health and great happiness. He sent by my willing hands a letter.” “Perhaps also you saw his friend, Senor Grant?” “From him, also, I received a letter. Into your gracious care, Senorita, I deliver them.”